


Remember

by Capucine



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hans is not evil, Big family, Complicated Relationships, Dark Take on Trolls, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Magic, Memory Alteration, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Protective Siblings, Sibling Abuse, Sibling Love, Suicidal Thoughts, Twins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-25 03:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4944691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capucine/pseuds/Capucine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hans is not as guilty of his crimes as he seems. When dark magic is at play, will his brothers save him, or will they abandon him to both his punishment and the torment of his mind? </p>
<p>Based on an interesting fandom theory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... there's this fandom theory about the trolls using their magic to essentially make Hans the villain of the movie. Their reason? To get rid of him as Anna's fiance and make room for Kristoff.
> 
> https://www.reddit.com/r/FanTheories/comments/1tjexi/frozen_was_the_villain_being_manipulated_into/
> 
> Now, while this is pretty unlikely, I really like the idea. So, I'm taking it and running with it! Be forewarned, lots of OCs (Hans' brothers, given that we know little about them), but good writing, I swear. I write novels, so I do have a pretty good grasp of what makes a good character, and the focus is mainly on Hans and not their exploits.
> 
> So, here we go! Enjoy!

It had never, never been true love. Never.

This was a thing that Hans repeated to himself, even as his hands trembled in his cuffs at the thought of facing home, of being there with his brothers and highly disappointed parents. The parents, he believed he could handle.

The brothers...? He shuddered.

He remembered clearly, or maybe not so clearly. He remembered meeting Anna, feeling _something_ , something kind of sunny, and of course, he knew that that was the realization he could marry into the kingdom. That was all. He hadn't thought her blue eyes were enchanting, hadn't been mildly delighted at meeting another redhead, and hadn't found her white streak of hair a charming 'flaw' that only made her prettier.

Those weren't in the memory. They kept popping up, though, like ice rising to the surface.

Ice. He shut his eyes again.

His brothers were going to kill him.

–

News had only reached the Southern Isles shortly after the ship arrived. It would probably spread like wildfire, of course, because Arendelle was not about to let the Prince's shameful acts go unpunished, unknown about. If the report was to be believed, of course, there was no doubt that this was fitting.

But Prince Bendt found the report not only astonishing, as the rest of the family did, but practically unbelievable. 

Hans was certainly intellectually capable of attempting a coup in a foreign country, but... he really didn't think his little brother _would_. Wasn't emotionally, morally capable of doing such a thing, much less the attempted murder of both the Queen and Princess.

It seemed too slap-dash, too hastily put together. He couldn't have gone in planning it, and while Bendt knew that Hans knew how to think on his feet, handily defeating his elder brother at all manner of strategy games, charming the socks off of anyone he chose... He still didn't think Hans could have done this.

Bendt had grabbed Bertil, his twin, and headed down to the ship his brother had returned in.

Bendt and Bertil were the third and fourth sons. There were thirteen of them total, including their brother Hans, all rather efficiently spaced roughly two years apart. There was a lot of teasing of their mother from their father about her 'excellent organization skills', though they were all scattered throughout the year in terms of birthdays.

Bertil, white-blond like his twin but with considerably more bulk, was looking at Bendt uneasily. His blue-green eyes traveled to the ship ahead of them and back. His hand kept drifting to his belt, where a dagger usually hung. It didn't take a genius to know Bertil was on edge, was wondering what they would face when they found their younger brother. “I don't want to see him.”

“Shouldn't you give him a chance to explain?” Bendt said mildly. Neither of them were very aggressive people, though Bertil had been known to fight people who badmouthed him sometimes—and people who badmouthed Bendt always. In fact, the two of them were probably the most peaceable and laid back members of the family.

In truth, Bendt was just as uneasy. He kept twisting the ring on his finger, a bad habit he'd picked up from his wife, who also had a need to fidget on occasion. He didn't want to face that Hans may have done something horrible; granted, he didn't kill anyone, but that didn't make it okay.

Bertil pressed his lips together. There was roughly a fourteen year difference between them and Hans; Bendt knew the both of them had always seen themselves as mostly benevolent figures in their youngest brother's life.

That was probably another reason they were chosen. Whether his father intended Hans to feel safe, or just to make sure he didn't lash out and make things worse for himself, Bendt wasn't sure. Probably the latter.

They had reached the ship. Bendt reached over and squeezed Bertil's shoulder. “You want to go in front, or should I?”

Bertil could take a hit easier, but Bendt was less likely to be hit. Bertil prided himself on his martial prowess; Bendt had an obsession with folklore and writing. Mostly, his work was translating old folklore, what little was written down or recorded, into the modern language.

Still. He could take it if Hans was violent.

Bertil sighed. “You can go in front, since you obviously want to. Besides, he likes you better.”

Bendt laughed a little. “I am the favorite of the month.” It tasted like ashes in his mouth after he said it. Hans had, when very small, declared Bendt his favorite. Bertil had objected, pointing out that he did things for him too, and didn't he remember how he'd rescued him from being locked in the privy?

At that, little Hans, ever good at diplomacy if a little naïve at that point, had declared that Bendt was the favorite of this month, and Bertil would be the next month. A few of the other brothers had chimed in, pointing out favors he owed them, and one or two had been selected for the next few months.

It was a bit bittersweet, knowing that Hans was now a criminal. He was just glad they didn't decide to execute him on the spot in Arendelle; he hoped his father would not decide to do that as a sort of apology to Arendelle.

They walked up the gangplank, Bendt first. The ship suffered no effects, it seemed, from being frozen in the harbor, though it still seemed rather fantastical that such a thing had happened. It seemed more likely to Bendt probably than the majority of his brothers, due to his work, but at the same time... hard to believe. Hard to even fathom.

The cell, the brig, what have you, was not exactly a great place to be. Well, that was an understatement; Bendt was a bit surprised a prince had been placed in the common brig, rather than locked in his quarters; the frown on his face must have been evident as they approached, because Bertil muttered something about lack of respect for royalty.

Bertil always knew what he was thinking.

The figure in the cell was definitely dressed in Hans' clothes. They were mostly white, or at least they had been. Now, there was evidence of a lot of filth in general, costly clothes ruined. That was not too big a surprise.

The shocking part was that the figure was jammed under the single board attached to the wall that served at a bed.

Hans was not known for hiding behavior. In fact, it seemed contrary to the front he put on for people. Bendt stepped up to the bars, trying to catch his brother's green eyes; he could already see the red of his hair, a bit darker with oil and sweat and grime. “Hans? We're here to take you to the palace.”

Hans didn't come out, even as the sailor opened the door with a clank.

Bendt was concerned. Was he really that afraid of punishment? Bendt was pretty sure his father had nothing especially cruel in mind for him, and even if he did, the Hans he knew would play it off, act completely calm about it. He had put up with all sorts of cruel pranks and devious torments from the three nearest his age: Edvin, Frederik, and Aksel. And he knew how to deal with shame, though perhaps not of the whole country.

“Hans.” Bertil said this rather flatly. “Come out of there. This isn't princely behavior.”

“You want me to get him?” the sailor wanted to know. Bendt dismissed him, however, knowing the pair of them were more than a match for Hans. He squatted down at Hans' level.

“Baby brother, I know this is hard, but you brought it on your own head. You have to face the music,” he said, a bit sternly. Kindness was in his nature towards Hans, but even he knew that such things couldn't simply be forgiven or forgotten.

Hans' eyes met his, and Bendt forgot for a moment why they were even there.

There was something...off. Something horribly off about the look in Hans' eyes. Was it fear? Maybe a little, but there was something else entirely, something that Bendt couldn't put his finger on.

“Hans!” Bertil snapped, and Hans jerked out from under the bed. He stood, altogether too uncomfortable in his own skin and gangly looking to be the little brother that Bendt knew.

Perhaps nearly murdering someone changed a person. Perhaps the guilt was killing him.

Hans usually had this air of knowing who he was and liking it. That wasn't strictly true, Bendt knew this much, but this Hans, returned after about a week of relative isolation from them, looked like he wanted to rip his own skin off just to get out of it.

“Just come quietly. We don't intend to publicize anything,” Bendt said, wanting to somehow make it easier on him, and yet still feeling he sort of deserved it, knowing that he had very nearly committed regicide.

It was an unforgiveable crime.

Hans was staring down at his feet, and nodded mutely.

He didn't talk to them at all on the walk there. He did flinch on seeing the castle, a strange reaction, but then, he should fear his father's wrath. He had done something pretty horrible. It still didn't make Bendt feel a sort of reluctant sympathy for his fear.

They would hopefully find out why he did it at the hearing.

There was no time to waste; it would be conducted upon reaching the castle.

–

It wasn't right. Hans' could feel the images slinking through his brain, seeing his brothers, his father, his mother--

Bendt and Bertil had done horrible things to him. He remembered this, as much as they were clearly pretending otherwise. Bendt had always taken a quill to his hand, the sharp point pushing, and sliced open his palm, once, twice, many times. Said it was because of his atrocious handwriting, which Hans knew he had improved and improved and improved until it met the elder's standards.

Bertil, though... he sparred with him, neglecting to take care for the fact that Hans was many years younger and therefore far less experienced and methodically fighting him until he was disarmed, helpless, backed into a corner.

Then he'd beat him with the practice sword or the flat of a real blade, telling him again and again, 'This isn't how a real fight would end, Hans. Work on your stance.'

And there were many, many more... instances of manipulation, such as forcing him to choose favorites and then nitpicking his choices, or offering him food and then shaming him for choosing the 'better' piece, physical attacks under the guise of being affectionate or sparring, tricking him into being found by the three...

He was just glad they let him walk. They didn't grab his arms, though the everpresent threat was there. One wrong step, and a bruising grip on his upper arm, undoubtedly.

He did not relish being in that castle. There was not a single person who would speak in his defense, and he couldn't speak in his own defense, because he still wasn't certain—why would he make that move? It was risky, far more risky than most he would make. All it would have taken was someone going back to check and see if Anna was still alive; all it would have taken was Elsa deciding to kill him in grief; all it would have taken was the nobles present realizing he had no real right to rule without an actual marriage contract proving his status. It was hare-brained, ill-thought out, and definitely not what he'd had his mind on when he planned to go--

Except he had. Of course he had. He remembered now, how the giddy rush he'd felt when proposing marriage had not been born of any feelings towards Anna or hope of escape.

No. He had been calculating all along, despite the phantom feelings that threatened to push their way into the memories.

And Bertil and Bendt were the least of his worries, he was sure.

His brothers would kill him.

But they wouldn't be merciful enough to make it quick.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hans stands trial--but it's rather ineffective.

Hans felt smaller than small, a trickle of sweat making its way down his neck and back as he stood before his whole family. All were in array, brothers, sisters-in-law, some of the older nephews and nieces, and of course, his parents.

Even Bendt and Lorens weren't looking at him kindly—why would they? Why did he have that thought? None of these people had ever been kind to him.

He knew his hands would be trembling violently if he didn't have them clasped behind his back, chest thrust out in the opposite way he felt, posture straighter than a ruler and face a calm mask. He could see his brothers exchange minute glances, and he knew what they were thinking.

He'd messed up big time, and he was about to pay for it.

His father cleared his throat imperiously—there was a court reporter there, but no other court members. And guards, plenty of them, with sharp weapons. As if his twelve brothers weren't enough to stop him, some of them with the hilts of their swords glittering at their waists.

“Prince Hans of the Southern Isles. We have heard a most grievous tale, one of your playing a part—or rather, orchestrating, an attempted overthrow of a kingdom and usurpation of the throne, not to mention attempted regicide of two members of Royalty of the Kingdom of Arendelle.” His eyes, a slightly steely blue, looked gravely over his glasses. “You have an opportunity to explain yourself.”

Hans felt like his tongue would cleave to the roof of his mouth. He kind of wished it would, because he could not—did not—have any idea how to explain it. And especially not in a way that would grant him his relative dignity and life.

He was silent for the moment.

Edvin, the oldest of the trio nearest his age, spoke up, voice commanding. “Brother—Prince Hans. We cannot judge the situation if you do not explain to us what has happened regarding yourself, your actions, and your motives. This is irregular behavior.”

Hans was sure he saw a sneer. He was sure he saw one of his greatest tormentors with a spark in his eye, a delight at seeing his nemesis—maybe victim would be the better word, they were never equals—brought so low.

He took a deep breath in through his nose. “I...” he trailed off. He didn't know what he was going to say.

Bendt and Bertil exchanged looks. He wasn't sure if it was feigned concern or a mockery that he was meant to catch.

All these people would torment him beyond belief if they knew the truth—but anything other than the truth would probably be found out. They always knew.

His mother's gray eyes swept over him, her lips pursed. She had her pinkish hands folded in her lap, something small inside them. He couldn't make out what it was, and couldn't make an educated guess at all.

He wanted to run. He could feel all their eyes, differing shades of blue and gray, on him, knowing that he was bad, wrong, had done something evil--

But no, no, he planned to do it, it was pragmatic, smart, calculating, all things they knew he was and should have known he would do.

Then why didn't he know it?

He did. He had known all along, had known since...since sometime before the whole thing.

His memories clashed, and he found himself ducking his head down, no longer the proud look as he looked towards the toes of his boots. They were leather, not clean, not clean for a long time, and he swore he could hear a voice commanding him to lick them clean, one of his brothers, he wasn't sure which.

“Hans!”

He looked up sharply. Lorens, the brother just above the trio, just out of their games—except, no, no one was outside the games—was looking at him, gray-blue eyes looking pained on his behalf. He probably felt that Hans was an embarrassment.

That assessment didn't fit the look in his eyes, the way he toyed a honey-blond piece of his bangs out of his face, a nervous habit, and said softly, “Why don't you start from the beginning?”

Lorens looked like their mother. He had the same softer curvature to his face, while still looking masculine, and the slight upcurled corners of his mouth, like he was just barely not smiling—yet. He was kind to Hans—no. 

No, he never had been. Memories popped up unbidden, of Lorens scalding him with a hot bath, of Lorens forcing him to eat a dish that made Hans's mouth burn and sting (he didn't recall what the dish was, wasn't sure if he'd seen it since), of Lorens gripping his arm with bruising force.

Lorens was not kind either, even if he looked like it.

Even if he was looking at Hans like the most empathetic, soft-hearted person in the room.

Hans shut his eyes, and looked down at his feet. There was little he could say without implicating himself further, without digging himself in worse.

He shook his head.

They would have to decide his punishment without his testimony to incriminate him.

–

Lorens had always had a soft spot for Hans. They were eight years apart, and what with the twins above him, Trygve and Troels, being rather exclusive in their socialization, and the trio beneath being somewhat more focused on things that Lorens didn't care for, he'd kind of attached to Hans.

Little baby Hans, the red mite that showed up one day and awed Lorens beyond belief. He didn't really remember the second youngest, Aksel, so well, and Aksel had always been determinedly self-sufficient anyway.

But Hans...he had been the one that Lorens had reverently examined, sat by and read to, and watched in awe day after day as he was cared for by his nursery maids. He'd managed to open Hans's fist to see the lines in his hand, to see the pink-red inside.

He'd stolen Hans's baby hats when he wouldn't stop crying with them on. He'd snuck into his room while the nursemaid was asleep nearby, in her cot, and simply watched this tiny infant sleep, his itty-bitty fist in his mouth or with the most adorable little breathing noises.

And that affection didn't completely stop as Hans grew old enough to understand it.

Lorens often went out of his way to show his little brother things, to gently adjust his grip on a small practice sword or pop up unexpected with a frog smuggled inside the castle. Lorens still remembered his fierce desire to protect this tiny human, that Hans had belonged to him.

But their father had seen it as unhealthy, and detrimental to Hans's growing up strong and independent, and so Lorens had been commanded to keep his distance.

He'd screamed and cried, an embarrassing display to his father, given that his son was eleven, nearly twelve—but then, Lorens had always been one of strong emotions, and this did not come as a complete surprise.

It also did not come as a surprise that he sullenly obeyed the command for the most part. He still managed to be in Hans's life, to intimidate the trio into leaving him be on some occasions, but picking him up and cuddling him in the midst of court was simply not done anymore.

He always wished that Hans would remember, back when he was young.

Now, at twenty-six, he had long since given up hope of having such a relationship with his youngest brother again...but that didn't mean he didn't still care.

This sight before him? It was painful.

Hans had shaken his head, barely getting a single word out where before he was, if not a bubbling fountain of words, at least a fairly articulate and prolific conversationalist. He liked talking. He liked showing off his skill with words. He enjoyed the interplay necessary to hold a good conversation or the nuances necessary in telling a good story.

It was like a game to him, sometimes, but never in a cruel way.

To be fair, against most of his brothers, he only had his words to fight back with.

Lorens fought the urge to let go of his wife's hand, her warm fingers clenching around his as she picked up on his distress. Her brown eyes met his, and she was giving him the saddest look, the one he knew said, 'I know it hurts, but you can't save him.'

Merete was a creature of good judgement and impulse control, including his. She kept a tight grip on his hand, giving a minute shake of her rounded face.

Hans's head remained bowed as their father said, “Is that all you have to offer? Do you not hear the charges against you, Prince Hans? Do you not understand the potential consequences of your actions.”

Hans's head came up, and the look in his green eyes was enough to make Lorens tighten his grip on Merete's hand further. It was confusion, pain, fear—but all masked beneath the look of someone trying to maintain decorum. Trying to minimize the damage.

“I...understand, Your Majesty.”

Their father let out a sort of huff, looking to the court reporter. “Stop your writing for a moment,” he said, voice grave and dangerous like a thunderstorm about to break.

His eyes came back to bore into Hans. “Hans. As your father, I can't just let you act like this about it. I need to know what happened, what would drive you to do such a thing.”

Lost. Confused. As if he was confused by his very thoughts on the matter. Hans's green eyes were quick to look away from their father.

Lorens knew he had to do something. He stepped forward, saying, “Father, if we are talking as family—I want to ask Hans. I want to talk to him.”

He saw Aksel nudge Frederik, the beginnings of a smirk on his lips. It died quickly when Lorens turned his death glare on him.

If there was one nonviolent weapon he had in his arsenal, it was his frankly terrifying death glare.

“You may,” their father said, voice clipped.

Lorens let go of Merete's hand, and she let him go, smoothing back her dark hair and pursing her lips. She knew he had to, even if she didn't agree.

Hans was looking studiously at his boots as Lorens approached.

Lorens got within about two or three feet of him, and said, softly, “Hans, you can't possibly make it worse, no matter what you tell us. You're already accused of treason, attempted usurpation, attempted regicide, and so on. You can't possibly get in more trouble. Do you understand?”

A pale Hans looked back at him, a Hans with dark circles under his eyes. Lorens wondered then what the time at sea had done to him, trapped alone with his thoughts. He was beginning to think Hans could have done it, without some outside pressure.

“I--” and Hans's voice cracked, and he sharply turned his gaze downwards once more.

Something was wrong here. Something was terribly wrong, Lorens was sure. He reached for Hans, intending to put a gentle hand on his shoulder--

And Hans startled back, out of his reach and arms held up defensively. He looked around the room, a sort of despair flashing through his eyes, before he swiftly dropped the posture and resumed a respectful stance.

Lorens could only gape. Hans had never, ever reacted that way to _him_. He'd always liked to think that Hans remembered, somewhere deep in his psyche, that Lorens had once shown him a lot of love. 

He thought he might be wrong now.

Before he could do something, however, the booming voice of their eldest brother cut through.

Mogens. He would not allow anything farcical to happen.

–

Hans was sweating, his skin felt too tight, he just wanted to be swalllowed up by the floor and not exist anymore.

Why was Lorens confused? Why would he react any other way? How could Lorens be that big of a sadist, that he would expect Hans to _welcome_ his touch after the way he'd treated him?

Buzzing was in Hans's ears. It was a miracle he made out the authoritative tones of Mogens, the eldest. The Crown Prince.

Crown Prince Mogens, thirty six years old, a father of three children and accomplished military genius. About as feeling as a rock, Hans seemed to recall, remembering his stony look whenever Hans had seen him, which was rarely, given his extensive training to rule the kingdom.

“Hans, you must take responsibility for your actions. You have no right to deny any and all evidence this court demands, even your own memories. Acquiesce, or there will undoubtedly be consequences.”

Hans didn't know how to acquiesce—it was too impossible. Too hard to tell them he'd dreamed of murder, usurpation, since the day he'd been put on the docket for the trip. How could he be expected to give them fuel for their torture? How could he be expected to give away his thoughts, all of which were incriminating?

His mouth was dry, as he croaked back, “Crown Prince Mogens, I merely--”

“No, Hans. You do not 'merely' do anything; tell us the truth, and we will get it sorted, sooner rather than later. You have clearly done something wrong, and you must be put up against the fullest extent of the law.”

Mogens, a tall, muscular man with a charming blond mustache and piercing blue eyes, was staring down at Hans. He had his arms not crossed over his chest, but at his sides. It didn't change the attitude: get it over with so we can torture you to death, for real or imagined crimes.

Of course, it wasn't imagined, as hazy as it sometimes was. It wasn't fake at all.

Hans wasn't sure what was happening to his body. It felt hot and cold all at once and at intervals, it was shaking badly, his ears rung like church bells, as he licked his dry lips and tried to croak out--

He got a sound out.

Then the room lurched, and he met blessed darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I hope I'm not being annoying with the OCs. I really do. It's hard work, lol. But yeah; Lorens is half-based on my feelings towards my baby bro when he was born, plus the whole fun-complicated-social-hierarchy thing that occurs in big families. You find your allies and so on.
> 
> Mogens is...probably not as cold as he seems.
> 
> And poor Hans. :)
> 
> The comment I just got honestly inspired me to write this update. I kinda forgot about it for a little bit. Thanks for the reminder! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remainder of Hans's trial doesn't go so well.

Hans swore he could hear laughing, a mocking sound, mocking voices—and immediately tried to move, his limbs feeling light and heavy at the same time, like they were feathers but he still couldn't lift them.

He was in someone's arms, he realized groggily, feeling shaking throughout his body. He felt like wind chimes in a breeze, and his eyes still weren't open.

He peeled his eyelids apart, and found a crackling, out of focus throne room.

“You can put him down, Ib.” 

Mogens's voice was recognizable anywhere, but Ib's voice was strangely...just different, Hans couldn't put the right word to it.

“He is dehydrated. He can't stand trial if he's dying of thirst.” Ib, whose full name was Jakob, was the one holding him. Just a bit off the ground, crouched down to his level. Ib was a childish nickname that Hans hadn't been around to know the origin of. It was common enough for boys named Jakob, however, as Hans heard.

Hans stared up into Ib's sky blue eyes, but like the sky, Ib's eyes were fathomless. They didn't betray much more than assessing Hans, despite the fact his strong arms were around him.

A memory, one that Hans couldn't have thought of before (but of course it had always been there, always) of the same arms lifting him up and over his head, holding him to the ceiling while he screamed and cried and begged to be put on the floor, made him stiffen. He tried to talk, but his tongue felt like sand paper, stuck to his mouth.

He could see a frown cross Ib's face. It was that usual, unreadable look, Ib being a relative loner—and creepy. Hans seemed to recall a creepy look always in his eyes in his memories, that look that said 'Wait til we're alone, and then you'll know what pain is.'

Bendt was suddenly leaning over them, chiding Ib. “Come on, Ib, bring his head up. He can't drink with his head flopped back like that.”

There was a certain business-like tone to Bendt's words, the kinder, softer one of the elder pair of twins obviously still remembering that he hated Hans, that Hans was the demon spawn in his eyes.

Ib's calloused fingers moved to grip the back of Hans's head, and that was when the shock of a memory struck Hans's mind--

This one was alarmingly real, no ambivalence as with most of his memories of late.

A hand gripped the back of his head. He was on the floor, screaming, crying, pleading—and he was being shouted at in turn. The memory may have been alarmingly real, but what the figure was saying, what the circumstances had been to lead to it, where he was hurting or being hurt—none of that was clear.

But he _was_ being hurt, and there was no stopping it.

He tried to tear free of Ib's hand in the present, a feeble fight that had Ib tightening his grip in a rather taciturn way. His blue eyes turned on Hans, giving him a look, one that was hard to read but seemed to be saying, 'I don't understand, but this is ridiculous.'

Hans was aware he was breathing harder, losing dignity of every kind—but they'd already taken that, many, many times, hadn't they?

Bendt's hand reached for his face, almost in a tender gesture, one meant to calm, but it faltered, and instead forced his mouth to pop open.

Water seemed almost unwelcome, but it poured in anyway, too much and too warm. Hans choked it down—most of it, anyway. The rest he breathed in, coughing violently. He felt Bendt's hand on his shoulder for a moment, as if to make sure he wasn't choking to death, but it quickly retracted.

He was still in Ib's arms, he realized, even as he regained his breath. His grip had left the back of his head, finally, but Ib was still scrutinizing him, trying to figure him out in that cold, clinical way he had sometimes.

“Ib.” Mogens's voice was stern, then turned sterner. “Jakob. You need to let Hans stand by himself. He has his water, he will be fine.”

Ib gave a brief nod, and stood up all the way, a terrifying sensation of going up too fast rocking Hans' stomach. Then, he put him on his feet, despite Hans tottering rather like a newborn foal.

But Ib backed away, despite Hans's near collapse, and rejoined the family that now looked down on Hans. The one that expected him to give them the lavish details of his crimes so they could torture him and then execute him—if mercy were permitted.

Hans wasn't so sure he'd want to go on living when they were through with him.

–

Ib was highly observant. This was a trait he had cultivated in himself, a way of improving himself and a way of occupying his time.

He had figured out that his tendency to be alone and aloof may in fact be related to being in between the two sets of twins. Everyone had their group, their allies—Mogens and Nikolaj, the two eldest—Bendt and Bertil, the next two, twins and instant friends for life—Trygve and Troels, also twins, instant partners for life, completely absorbed in their world and little else—Edvin, Frederik, and Aksel, the three nearest to youngest and a band of relative hooligans and generally up to no good—and that left him, Lorens, and Hans, the odd ones out.

Lorens found ways for socialization and companionship, passionately loving everything that he deemed worthy and okay to love. From the Captain of the Guard's son to his fiancee (and then wife) Merete, to the rabbits he insisted on raising and then on to his own child, a tiny girl of three named Birgitta, he loved whatever he did love fiercely.

Ib had thrown himself into logic, into philosophy and observation and human nature. He had needed direction, and as the fifth son, he'd known pretty quickly he would not get a chance to rule. Instead, he intended to contribute to the cultural or societal good through his work.

And he had. His work was published quite often, in university work and other things, his treatises on human nature and history and the like gaining mildly wide acceptance, at least at home.

But Hans? He wasn't entirely sure what purpose Hans had chosen for his life.

Their father had talked of sending Hans to a monastery, and Ib had deduced that this scared Hans, but that the well-put-together youngest would never speak against it.

Instead, he must have hatched this plan.

He must have been desperate, far more desperate than Ib had ever concluded from watching him.

And now, he could see the desperation in his posture, as Hans stood before them, fighting to not only not sway, but to keep his arms respectfully at his sides, to keep from speaking out—and probably to keep from crying.

Ib's face may not have shown much, but internally he was trying to put the pieces together. Was monastery life so odious to Hans that he would try to commit regicide to get out of it? Wouldn't it be significantly less risky to try to manipulate a marriage at home, or even simply talk to their father, as much as he could be a block of stone at times?

It made little sense to Ib, but he also knew the human spirit could be surprisingly unpredictable. The one moment you think you've reached the truth about humanity, there was always some random human to mess up the idea.

So, Hans's face, the way he was interacting, the words he was—or rather, wasn't—-saying, disturbed Ib to a great degree.

He only hoped someone else could see this was out of order.

–

Hans could see the three—Edvin, Frederik, and Aksel—eyeing him disdainfully, sneers like magic that would disappear when their father looked in their direction—which was not often.

They were plotting. They were plotting all the horrible things they would be allowed to do to him.

And the memories with them were the most intense, most infused with fear—being held out a window or over a well, being warned that he would be kicked in the crotch eight times on his birthday when he least suspected it, and that being followed through on, gripping the headboard of his bed as he prayed they wouldn't come barging in tonight, it was Christmas Eve, he deserved a wish to be answered, only to be dragged out and dunked in the snow--

Among others. Among more pain and humiliation and fear.

He couldn't talk. Couldn't force out a word, despite his father's glowering.

His father looked frustrated. “Prince Hans, we demand answers. Tell the truth—why did you go to Arendelle?”

It blurted out. “To marry Elsa.”

This brought a snort of laughter from Aksel, as if to say, 'You? _Elsa?_ I knew you were stupid, but--'

It quieted on a look from the king, who then turned his eyes back on Hans. “Continue. How did this plan devolve?”

Hans looked over at his brothers, almost searching for a friendly face—he knew there were none. He couldn't even count on his mother to be empathetic, he knew.

“I...” he tried, then quietly admitted, “I'm not sure. I...I don't know why.”

Edvin gave a sharp, “Hans, that's ridiculous. You don't commit, or attempt to commit, regicide without a serious decision to do so. And considering your plans, it's really fu—completely, stupid that you would expect us to believe it happened as a sort of mistake you don't understand.”

He hated Edvin. Just his voice made his skin crawl, especially with that tone. Especially.

Hans's hands curled into fists, and he glared down at the floor. He knew he had planned to do it from the beginning—though his memory also told him he'd planned to marry Elsa from the beginning. Which was it? He couldn't have had both objectives in mind, it didn't make sense...

Mogens said, in a stern but not so cutting tone as Edvin, “Hans, explain, now. Why on earth would a plan to marry Queen Elsa, as grandiose as that might be, become a plot to murder the remaining royal family of Arendelle and assume control of the throne?”

Hans didn't know. He didn't know. It didn't add up in his head, and it was making his brain hurt. “It just did. That's all.”

“When did you conceive of the second plan?” 

“At-at the same time,” Hans stammered, and this made incredulous looks be exchanged. “I didn't—I made no move towards it, until...until...” he was trying to remember, it was like his memories had been in a butter churn, “No, it was there from the beginning, I was always trying—that's not right, that makes no sense—it was when I got the cape—no, it was when Anna returned—but then I wouldn't--” He dragged his hands through his hair, cutting off his speech before they thought him mad.

Maybe he was mad.

“He's clearly addled by his time at sea,” Edvin said, a disparaging tone to his voice.

Aksel let out a sort of snort again, saying, “As he is always addled, it seems, his head in the clouds and his body back here on earth. Not that there was much to send to the clouds--”

“That's enough, Aksel,” Mogens said stiffly.

Hans could feel his heartbeat in his ears. He didn't understand. Why couldn't he remember, crystal clear? He had always—had he? Had he always remembered things in a crystal clear sort of way? Or was that—again, was he mad?

The king let out a barely discernible sigh. He nodded to the twins—the other pair, Trygve and Troels. “Take him back to his quarters—lock him in. He will stand trial in two days, when he is not so addled.”

A two-day reprieve—or a two day window for torture.

Hans found himself more and more wishing Elsa had killed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ib is on the autism spectrum, and is very high-functioning. Kinda decided that the second I started writing him, honestly. Of course, they wouldn't know that in this time, but it's still a thing regardless of time or location. I am basing some of him off of my sis, who has Asperger's. Please let me know if it's offensive or completely bullshit in some way.
> 
> Also, regardless of his neurodivergence, Ib is also a stoic personality due in part to his upbringing and due in part to his nature. He's the one who felt alone growing up, but also felt unable to reach out; my sis had this a bit, stuck beneath her two twin sisters who were very exclusive, and in big families you tend to have alliances and the like, so it makes sense that he would feel boxed out by the twins, as well as the others' alliances.
> 
> The reason he's not close with Lorens is that Lorens's passion and loud emotions scare him. Also, he doesn't completely get Lorens, and they just don't click. Plus, four years difference, which can be huge in childhood. Hans, there's a twelve year difference, so they didn't have much of a shot.
> 
> And Edvin is the ringleader...which we shall see more of in the next chapter, I believe. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hans deals with Trygve and Troels--which is a whole lot less painful than his following encounter with the three brothers nearest his age.

Hans stumbled along between Trygve and Troels, the pair each putting a hand on his shoulder.

One of the best words to describe the twins: Exclusive.

They didn't talk to him, pale blue eyes meeting every so often in their unspoken communication. He thought he felt their grips shift every so often, and he swore they were communicating behind his back, which would be pretty typical for them, as they tended to have their secret ways of telling each other things.

It made sense they would, of course, though Hans had not known before the scarlet fever that had taken away most of Troels's hearing. They were three.

It was only when they were about ten that Hans was born.

He had never seen their silent signals and such as nefarious—though, of course, they always had been, what was he thinking?

Not much flashed through his mind, but he seemed to recall them sharing silent mirth over him, mean humor apparent. He could remember...yes, them pointing him out to the three, telling them where he was hiding—he could remember them taking his food at the table.

He could not remember much. He seemed to recall a general lack of interaction between him and the second set of twins, since they pretty much kept to themselves.

Perhaps that was why his father had chosen them to escort him—they barely knew each other, had little feelings about each other compared to the rest.

They arrived at the room. Hans instantly recognized it as the entrance to his rooms, the door as pretty and painted as the rest. These rooms should have been his safe haven, but he knew they never were, the lock on the inside having been removed long ago.

They stepped into the main room, Trygve and Troels following him.

Trygve spoke first. “Prince Hans, you need to lie down. We will ensure that water and food is brought to you.”

Stiff. Formal. As was typically the case with the twins.

Hans broke this typical formula. “Trygve, do you think they'll kill me?” There was a note of hope, and he could see Trygve crinkle his brow at this, since Hans had turned to face him.

Trygve flashed a look at Troels, a sort of sign, and then said, “Why?”

Troels was intently looking at Hans.

Hans pursed his lips, then said, “No reason. I merely wonder.”

Troels gave Trygve a look. What was in that look, Hans wasn't sure. He never completely understood the twins.

Trygve said, carefully, “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

It wasn't accusatory—it seemed. Hans stuttered a little, and said, “N-No, of course not. Who _wants_ to die?”

A deep frown appeared on Troels's face.

Hans felt rather concerned about their reactions.

They were probably going to report back to their father, and he would devise some suitable punishment, something short of death.

Lucky Hans. As always.

–

Troels had to combine his very limited hearing with his ability to read people and more specifically, their lips. But he and Trygve were excellent people readers, able to pick up on many, many things—and Hans was not okay.

He stared at him a moment, and the things he was sensing...he didn't like them one bit.

An air of desperation pervaded Hans, his posture spoke of insecurity (not entirely unusual) and fear, despite his attempts to hide it. Exhaustion was evident as well. 

But the thing that disturbed Troels most—he obviously wanted to die. He obviously meant it, even if he didn't mean it completely, even if he would probably not attempt—unless pushed.

Troels knew this feeling, and he exchanged looks with Trygve.

He could see Trygve's feelings on it, a sort of pained, 'I know. I see it too. He's just like you were.'

Long ago, Troels had attempted it. Had attempted to die. He was too frustrated with his life, too upset by yet another attempt to curtail his coping with his hearing loss his way.

They'd tried to control how he communicated then, tried to get him talking 'like a normal person' and functioning like a 'normal person' and basically trying to erase any sign of his hearing loss—his inability to be a 'normal person.' He wasn't completely deaf and dumb, as they said, he should try harder to function. Never mind that he didn't even know people were talking most of the time if he couldn't see them. Never mind that his speech was severely stunted, mocked at every turn for the way it sounded by anyone other than Trygve.

That was when he'd tried, at age thirteen. He and Trygve had been extremely close beforehand, but the relationship became a bit warped at that point—Trygve became caretaker, protector. They did not go anywhere alone, at all, not even the privy.

And they'd been left to it, essentially given up on, which gave them free reign to do whatever they wanted. Which was medicine, as it turned out, constantly figuring out how new things worked and then improving them. They could communicate with the slightest look, and yes, they made friends (not family members, never family members), but they rarely reached out.

They'd maintained a more balanced, more healthy relationship as they became adults.

Trygve would always, always come first, but Troels knew they had to do something for Hans. He was hurting.

He watched Trygve brush back his own ash-blond hair, a contrast to Troels' near-platinum blond. They were fraternal, unlike Bendt and Bertil. His twin took in his look, gave a slight nod.

They had to do something.

–

Hans eyed the pair, knowing that they were communicating without him knowing what was being spoken. He hated to think that they could be plotting, could be planning something nefarious.

He fought shifting uneasily from foot to foot, not liking the small hand signs and looks they were giving each other.

He didn't understand—Trygve could talk just fine, and Troels could understand it. The only reason they did things this way was to be secretive, clearly.

Trygve sighed, and approached Hans, eyes seeming to take in the way he flinched back, but ignoring it. He put both hands on Hans's shoulders, and steered him to the bed.

Hans almost fought it, afraid they would hurt him, but then, they didn't have much of a history of doing that, and he decided to take the risk. He was gently pushed down onto the bed, and sat, then, a strong longing overtook him, and he fell back onto the bed.

It was soft, and he hadn't realized just how tired he was, how much he had missed a bed. He nearly fell asleep instantly.

“Hans.” Trygve's voice cut through.

The brother was watching him, also seated on the bed. He continued, “Don't do anything dire. You don't know how this is going to turn out, and it could be a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Hans said, turning a bit away defensively.

Trygve exchanged looks with Troels once again, and said, voice warming up just a bit, “I mean that. Don't hurt yourself. It's never worth it.”

Hans snorted. What, did they want to make sure they got plenty of opportunity to hurt him? Or at least, that the others did? They weren't blind, they could surely see that he was going to suffer greatly no matter what.

Then again, the pair had always seemed rather out of touch.

So he just nodded, not looking either in the eye. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Trygve looked to Troels, and Troels gave a brief shake of his head. Trygve sighed again, and stood. “Drink. Eat. Don't forget basic bodily functions. You need to get well.”

Hans turned away facing the wall.

He heard the door close not too long later, and shut his eyes.

He didn't need their help anyway; they wouldn't help him if they understood. He was clearly evil, had done things out of purely evil, self-focused interest—that was not something _anyone_ would empathize with.

He fell asleep quickly, and was tormented with colorful dreams, singing voices and crackling colors behind his eyelids, neither of which he recognized as something he'd experienced.

–

He was jolted awake by hands on this thigh and shoulder, flipping him over.

Hans managed not to scream, but he did flail, trying to get to an upright position at least, hands held him firm, one clamping over his mouth.

He saw instantly who it was, and wasn't really all that surprised.

Edvin, Frederik, and Aksel leaned over him, sadistic grin on Aksel's face, like this was some hilarious, fun joke for him, malevolent glow in Frederik's eyes, and that typical cold look from Edvin.

He let out a muffled cry, but found he could not struggle free.

Their blue and gray eyes looked into his green, and there it was—that hate, that disdain for him as a person.

He was scared, he realized, heart hammering in his chest. Their grips were too tight, painful, and he wanted—wanted...someone, someone safe.

Was there such a person anyway?

But Edvin spoke. “Hans, you know why we're here. You've brought shame on the family, the entire nation of The Southern Isles—and father is sure to be too soft on you.”

Were they talking about the same father?

Edvin clearly saw the look in his eyes, because he said, with a laugh that wasn't humorous, “Whatever he decides will be too good for you, runt. We know he won't kill you. Too drastic for him, how can he control his family if they're dead and free, right?”

Hans let out a muffled protest, giving another struggle—and being slammed in the abdomen for his trouble. The air wheezed out of him, and he found himself gasping for breath.

That made Aksel laugh—as always.

It was just like being a kid again—being helpless. Nothing had changed since Hans could remember, nor since the moment he'd realized that it wasn't normal, that this was not the way things were supposed to be.

He twisted in their grip, as Aksel cackled, “He just doesn't learn. He's so stupid.”

Frederik got a devious look on his face, and said, “Want to see how stupid? Watch this.”

Hans was starting to panic, but when Frederik started touching his neck, feather light and then with increasing pressure, he completely panicked. He knew it was stupid, knew he wasn't hurt or being choked, but images flashed through his mind—being trapped, on the floor, his neck being held tight, held firm as pain and fear tore through his body like a tidal wave--

He fought as hard as he could, trying to scream around the hand clamped over his mouth.

They were laughing. Frederik taunted, “Aw, you don't like that? Poor baby Hans. Look, he's _crying_...”

The hand was removed from his neck, and Hans stilled, still gasping for breath and trying to regain control—but he had no control here, he had no choices or power, and it was devastating.

Frederik and Aksel were exchanging amused smirks, apparently quite pleased with themselves.

Edvin still had that conceited frown on his face, like he was doing this for pure reasons. As always.

“Let's get to it. Now.”

Aksel shrugged, and pulled out a blunt object—seemingly a metal, rounded bar. He swiftly wrapped it in a pillow.

Hans tried to scream again, a tactic that had rarely worked—no, never worked, he remembered now, his other brothers only ever laughed at what they did—but it was like the time separate from them, the reprieve from the attacks, had made him want to fight again, had renewed his ability to protest.

But Edvin nodded to Aksel—the two, Frederik and Edvin, were holding him down, leaving his body completely open to attack. 

Hans was trembling, was trying desperately to block—but then the bar slammed into his midsection, and he cried out in pain. It hurt, it felt like dull but potent pain, rippling up his body and making him clench his fists tight enough to whiten the knuckles.

They hit him a number of times—a lot of times, he didn't keep track after the first five and something cracked and made it unbearable.

He blacked out sometime into it.

No one had come to save him, as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is all right. I researched the treatment of the deaf in the 19th century for this chapter, and holy crap, people were such bastards about it! They would literally write articles comparing and contrasting blindness and deafness and basically concluding that it was way better to be blind because deaf people obviously were incredibly limited intellectually and couldn't do stuff like come up with ideas because they couldn't read (which, it went on to say that they *could* read but it was ridiculously hard to teach them because they couldn't understand the sounds that the words made).
> 
> Cause they were the 'experts.' :I I really hate 'medicine' sometimes, even nowadays.
> 
> Anyway, I hadn't originally intended physical abuse, I think, but yeah. The three's abuse is quite real, especially rn since they're incensed by Hans's behavior.
> 
> Also, the twins are a bit based on me and my twin, since we became severely dependent when I became effectively disabled by mental illness and such. Such a thing can be common when a disabled twin is not adequately supported and taken care of by those outside of the twinship, and especially if the twins are always together.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But who is the twelfth brother? And how does he fit into this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Fucked up on the counting thing, but I fixed it! I hope you like it.

Hans awoke to first a blessed numbness, then reality hit—his whole abdomen seemed to spasm and ache in pain. He gasped, small pained noises making it out of his mouth as he tried to stay quiet.

His eyes took in the room, and no one was there, but that didn't mean no one could hear him—and he certainly didn't want them to know he was awake. If they knew he was awake, they might just come back—and he didn't think he could handle that. 

He brushed his hands over the painfully throbbing area—it only made it worse, and he thought there might be bruises. But then, they had wrapped it in a pillow, so perhaps bruises wouldn't show. Abruptly, he curled in on himself, imagining a warm hand on the back of his head, the top—but there had never been a warm hand, what was he thinking? Only a hand intending to hurt.

Hans shut his eyes tightly. There was no chance he was about to find kindness in this place, much less mercy. They would hurt him worse than this, they had before, and he had done little to deserve it before.

He had really done something to deserve it this time. He sort of believed he should let it happen, but another part of him fearfully wanted to hide away. Wanted to escape any punishment.

In any case, when the lock on his door clicked open, his eyes snapped open, and he watched the doorway, willing himself to straighten out but finding his body would not obey his commands.

The slightest hint of red hair, barely not a gold or blond sort of color like the rest of the family, revealed itself, and the one prince-of-a-kind that had not been at the trial revealed himself.

Hans could feel his breath stop, could feel his stare instantly try to guard itself.

Werner. The bastard brother five years older than him. Outside the pattern, outside of expectations—outside of wedlock. Still, he looked more like he belonged than Hans, gloved hands formally held to his sides as he looked dispassionately down at Hans.

“Hello, little brother. How do you fare?”

He had to know. There was no way Werner hadn't heard. Hans's mouth was dry, clamped shut.

Werner let out a small, humorless laugh. “No need to be frightened of me, Hans. You should know by now I can't lay a hand on a full-blooded prince, even you. And, well...any other way I could take to bring you down...there's certainly no method that could bring you lower, now is there?”

_Nemesis._ That was the word that flashed through Hans's mind. He and Werner had to fight for the bottom rung—and he had been the one pushed off.

Werner sighed softly. “I did not want to see you in this state, I will confess. I never would have suspected something like this from you...but, fates fall as they shall.”

That had to be a lie. Werner had to be happy, had to be rejoicing that he would indefinitely be the one better than Hans.

Hans glared at his half-brother, almost scared and almost not. His memories of Werner were remarkably clear, and the majority did not involved physical pain—only emotional.

Of being told that things were his fault, things he couldn't have controlled but should have controlled by _not being born_.

Werner looked on him, and thoughts seemed to go through his brain.

–

In truth, Werner wasn't sure if he'd ever truly _hated_ Hans. Not like some of the others did, in any case.

But Werner was born on the outside, the intruder, and Hans was the easy casualty for making it in. At five years old, he had been finally revealed to the whole family, after living a fairly happy life in a cottage of his aunt's, his mother having died rather suddenly, being unable to breathe. He didn't really remember her, having only been two.

What he did know is that she had red hair. Far redder than the King's blond, or the Queen's blonde.

And yet, he had only the slightest touch of copper. Five years old, practically blond—and the Queen just about to go into labor.

He didn't remember the screaming match himself, the fight that had gone down between the King and Queen. He was, however, helpfully filled in on it by older half-brothers. Mogens said nothing, stiff and formal as always, eyes sternly kept ahead—but Nikolaj.

Nikolaj...was a case all his own. Yes, the three youngest—well, mostly Edvin, and then sort of Frederik, had been quick to start with teasing, but Werner was aware enough now to know that had mostly been adjusting to a new member, tiny Aksel sucking away on his fingers and laughing along with his brothers.

Then the worst had happened—Hans was born.

One would think it would be the worst if the Queen had died during childbirth. One would think that it would devastate the family more—perhaps they would never know.

Werner knew he'd survived his mother's death, and then being separated from his aunt—his mother, in essence—fairly well, but his arrival had set something off in the Queen, he believed. Proof of her husband's infidelity.

Nikolaj was second-oldest, always ready to follow Mogens's command—but also ready to issue his own, to make his own waves. He was sixteen years old at the birth of Hans—Hans who was born with a head full of red hair.

And their mother—theirs, not his, not Werner's—entered into a deep depression after the birth of Hans.

And Nikolaj had made murmurs about how it was Werner's fault, how his appearance had caused the Queen to enter into such a state—and Werner was an astute lad. He was only five, but he knew he had to shift the blame.

And maybe he didn't truly do it himself. But the King had been eager to pounce on a reason to not have to have shame, for his wife to be on the defensive. If anyone was a bastard, if anyone had been conceived out of wedlock, it was _Hans_ , he'd claimed a fateful day or so after Hans was born. Look at that head of red hair—surely she had done the same as him, worse than him.

The King hadn't claimed such a thing again. Maybe it would have drifted away, and the Queen would have gotten better—would not have had a stone face forever.

But Hans's fate was sealed the moment that Werner realized the heat could be taken off of him if he blamed Hans. A baby barely three days old had to bear his guilt of having been born illegitimate, and at the time, it seemed just to him. Why should he suffer? Why not Hans? What had Werner ever done to deserve the hatred directed at him by Nikolaj, and echoed by Edvin and Frederik?

Nikolaj soon seemed to forget. The three were quickly influenced into hating the baby, the baby who couldn't argue in his defense, the one who didn't look more like them and wasn't a delightful playmate. The baby who squalled in the middle of the night and didn't know not to wet himself.

Werner looked down on his brother in the moment, curled in on himself, and could still remember the years of the things he'd done to keep himself afloat. A sort of guilty lump rose in his throat; he knew now that _neither_ of them had deserved that treatment. That it should never have been a question of one or the other.

But that was how it was now, and it was out of Werner's hands to change it. Honestly, the best he could do for Hans was help him end it quickly; he'd heard the rumors of execution being the route that their father would take.

An appeasement of Arendelle that Arendelle may or may not have asked for.

In any case, that was why there was a bottle in Werner's hands now. Hans should have a choice—a thing he had rarely been given.

At least, that was what he told himself, as he resented the knot in his stomach as he looked at Hans.

–

Hans watched Werner, not sure, never sure, what was going on in the bastard son's mind. He was conniving, he was calculating. He was smarter than Hans, probably.

“What do you want?” Hans said, as stiffly as possible. He wanted him to leave. He knew enough to know that Werner would probably not hurt him, but he still didn't like him one bit, still cringed at the thought of the painful words thrown his way.

_'If you hadn't been born, your mother would be happy. We'd all be happy, you know.'_

_'You know red hair, especially your color, is a sign of bad blood, right? Mine's only slightly red—yours is redder than poppies. Bad blood there.'_

_'You probably should have died. They said you almost choked as a newborn—blue in the face. Too bad you didn't actually die, huh?'_

What Werner said now was distinctly more formal than as children—yet distinctly kinder. “I...want to offer you a choice. It's your prerogative to use that choice as you see fit. Seeing you in such pain is not something I would have desired, I want you to understand that—and that's why I'm giving this to you.”

A blue bottle was produced, set gently on the bed in front of Hans. 

Hans stared at it for a moment, then his mouth went dry as he saw the clear skull etched on the label—this was poison. He choked a little trying to speak, then finally managed, “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Werner gave him a pitying look. “I only want you out of your misery.”

Like a dog. Like a sick animal. Hans swallowed, throat seeming to stick together as he wasn't sure of anything.

Werner gave a sigh, and turned to leave. “It may simply be the wise choice in this situation, Hans. There are cases where surrender is far wiser to fighting a losing battle.”

The words seemed to echo in Hans's skull as Werner left: _There is no hope._

If Werner thought there was no hope, then he must know something that Hans didn't. He must know what his family planned to do to him. The horrible tortures they would inflict, before presumably an agonizing death.

Hans's hand reached out, trembling, towards the bottle, holding it tight once he got it. The glass was cold, which was appropriate, he thought a bit wryly, and he just held it.

He couldn't do anything else with it, he found—couldn't throw it away, couldn't drink it. He could only hold on to it, dreading, dreading, dreading...and not sure what to dread worse.

He shut his eyes tightly.

Could death be worse than this? At least it would be on his own terms if he drank it now—at least it would take away his family's satisfaction at getting to torment him. And what was a day, a week, lost of his life? It wasn't like something important was going to happen during that time, only more misery.

Still, the bottle stayed where it was, clutched in his hand.

He would decide.

But not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good ol bastard children. Werner is not a bad person, to be clear, though he is clearly just trying to assuage his guilt rather than genuinely help Hans. But yeah, in circumstances like those, it's very tough to make a compassionate choice without getting yourself hurt too.
> 
> Especially so young.
> 
> I've seen somewhat similar things happen in my family (scapegoat! yay!), so yeah. That's where I drew from.
> 
> And I know, apparently, in canon, all of Hans's family except maybe a set of twins have red hair, but...I'd already set it up this way before knowing about that, so yeah. XD
> 
> I hope people are still interested. I just went through a stress breakdown and shit, so my writing's been a little off, I guess.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crown Prince Mogens does not approve of suicide.

The bottle had warmed a little in the time he held it. It felt like hours, hours of a shaking hand and lips that refused to stay wet, not dry and slightly trembling. The deep blue seemed to call to him, to say 'This is the peace you will get.'

The label was also smudged a bit from the sweat from his hand.

Hans still had not decided, could not. He just laid there, eyes stinging as he stared at it. Would he really be better off gone? Would he really escape—or would it be a worse hell waiting for him?

The Church certainly didn't offer good things about suicide. 

Probably why he still had a full family. Probably, because what life could be worse than Hell itself?

He wasn't sure. At least his family wouldn't be in Hell. At least, not for a while. He found himself laughing at that, a desperate sound he was surprised came from his throat.

Maybe that attracted attention, because his door came open then, the thick wood soundlessly opening against the click and clatter of the lock and the doorknob hitting the wall.

“What is that?” came the clipped demand, and the bottle was taken from him.

A desperation rose in Hans—maybe he hadn't wanted to kill himself, but the choice was being taken from him, and he wanted the choice. Even as the imperious Crown Prince Mogens stood over him, a frown in those stone features like it was chiseled in.

He grabbed for it, saying, “It's mine, give it back!”

Mogens easily caught his wrist, and with just that, forced him back down on the bed, face practically in his. His eyes were now burning with anger, a look Hans rarely saw.

“How dare you! You are a royal and Christian, how dare you ever decide to take your life! That is the greatest evil—do you understand how many have fought and died that you may live, that you may even exist?” Mogens was practically growling in his face.

It was, frankly, terrifying, and Hans made the attempt to get free—but his legs were basically trapped, and he didn't dare _hit_ Crown Prince Mogens, instead trying to pull his other wrist free. “Leave me alone!”

“That's pathetic! You have a royal bloodline to uphold, to demand respect for—what will people say when they hear you are a coward? What will people think of us and our ability to rule?” Mogens words were grinding into his skull like a drill, like Hans had seen in old time Medieval texts.

Hans let out a hiccuping sob despite himself, practically wailing, “Get off! Get off, get off!”

–

Mogens didn't understand Hans at all. He didn't get how anyone could consider killing themselves in Hans's position—or hardly at all. If one was a poor, stupid peasant, he could see, perhaps, how, out of ignorance, it might happen.

But Hans was not entirely stupid. Hans was supposedly well-educated. Hans was a _prince_ \--princes did not commit suicide.

And did he not understand the stain he would bring on their name? The way he would interfere with Mogens's rule _forever_? 

Mogens intended to run an entirely peaceful, prosperous country. He intended to be the monarch the people needed and respected, a fatherly figure like he was to his children—with the stain of a suicide in the very royal family, how could anyone see him as a good, godly man? How could anyone look at their family and see the standard for living?

That was what royals were supposed to be. Saints and role models—and Mogens did his utmost to be both.

That was why, as Hans burst into tears beneath him, he could only feel a frustrated disgust—that Hans had sunk so low, had so tarnished their name. His little brother had been something of a problem child—he was always hearing about it from Nikolaj, the brother he kept most contact with.

He had never been close with any of the others, really. Or many people at all.

His hand clenched tightly around Hans's wrist, causing a pained moan from him. “Hans. Stop this immediately. You must take complete responsibility for your actions, and you are trying to cheat justice this way. Do you not understand that it's bad enough you've done what you've done?”

“Please get off, please--” Hans pleaded, reduced to tears and acting like he was actually hurting him, like there was reason to be terrified.

Mogens didn't see why there would be. “Listen to me first. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand, please--”

“Then stop crying. Now. That's more than enough.” Mogens didn't think tears were warranted. Hans could perhaps cry if he was about to be executed or somesuch, though a stiff upper lip would be far more appropriate, but this was ridiculous.

Hans was hiccuping still, gasping, saying, “Please, I'm sorry, please--”

“Stop crying.” Mogens didn't see why it was so hard. He could stop crying on dime, he was sure—he hadn't truly cried in many years, but he was sure he could stop if he so chose.

The last time he truly remembered crying was when Hans was born and his mother just...stopped. Stopped hugging, stopped smiling, stopped loving.

After that, he learned to take care of himself. He learned that love was a minor thing, not as important as control of oneself or leadership or strength.

But Hans wasn't stopping with his crying. He seemed unable, but that was ridiculous. Anyone could control their emotions if they just tried.

His grip tightened enough on Hans's wrist that he swore he felt the bones move. “Stop crying now!”

–

Hans practically screamed at the pressure on his wrist—it hurt, it really hurt, and he still could not remember Mogens ever doing this to him, ever really interacting with him at all—but he was clearly cruel as the rest.

“Please, please,” he begged, trying to twist out of his grip.

“Mogens!” Bendt was running in the doorway, his familiar blond head a sort of welcome sight to Hans, until he remembered that Bendt surely approved, surely would join in--

But he didn't. He pulled Mogens off, shouting at him, “What in god's name are you doing? You're _hurting_ him--”

“He had this,” Mogens said rather icily, holding out the bottle so the skull clearly showed.

Hans scrambled to a corner of the bed, bathed in shame and fear. He held his wrist tightly to his chest, rubbing it to try to make the throb go away. He was sure it would bruise.

Bendt's face was incredulous. “No. No, Hans wouldn't...no. What is that? Let me see it clearly!” He snatched the bottle from Mogens, who let him, and read the label. His face seemed to fall. “Hans...” he said, looking over with the most pained eyes that Hans had ever seen.

Confused was an understatement in describing the feeling swirling in Hans's head. Why would he care? Was he going to hurt him too over it? “Leave me alone,” Hans croaked, still pressed in his corner and trying to understand what the hell was going on.

He flinched when Bendt took a step towards him. Couldn't help it, but hurt flashed through Bendt's eyes.

“This isn't right,” Bendt muttered, “This isn't—Hans would never--”

“There are some other things we would never suspect Hans of,” Mogens pointed out. He still had that stone face, that cold way of watching people that made Hans feel like something was slithering in his gut.

“Yeah...there are,” Bendt said pensively. His eyes were taking on a look Hans wasn't sure about. Like there must be some mystery he had all the clues to right here in front of him, if he only arranged them right.

“Just let me die, please,” Hans pleaded, “Please. I don't want to—to be tortured, please--”

Bendt's eyes widened almost comically. “Who said anything about torturing you? Hans, we wouldn't--”

A sort of broken rage raised its head in Hans. “No, no, don't lie to me, don't pretend! I know that's what you're all planning, I know! Just stop pretending, just stop! Let me die—you won't have your fun, but you'll be rid of me—we'll all be happy!”

The tears must have been streaking down his cheeks.

The look on Bendt's face was positively stricken, which made little sense. He almost whispered, “You think we'd...you think you'd be happy dead...? As opposed to...? You think...”

Mogens looked a bit confused and uncertain as well. He decided, “This is a ploy. This is a lie, an act---he was always a good actor. We need to leave him be, let him learn this won't work—he will have to face his shame.”

Hans nearly sobbed with frustration. They were going to keep pretending, keep him in this suspenseful place where he knew what was going to happen but not entirely, where they pretended enough that he might get hope—only to be dashed in the worst way. He wasn't really the crying type, as evidenced by the shock from Bendt—but there was only so much he could be expected to take.

There was only so much pretending and harm they could do before he broke, and maybe that was the point—break him in his mind before breaking his body. Well, at least this meant the body-breaking would come sooner and be over with—they'd won on the mental front.

He could see Bendt's arms twitch, reaching towards him both at once—and he flinched hard, raising his arms to protect himself. There wasn't much point anymore, but it was a serious reflex by now, one he would not break even when they killed him or ruined him beyond comprehension.

They did it. They won. Maybe they would be happy now.

Mogens turned to leave the room, shoes clicking against the floor like a pointed reminder he believed it all an act.

Bendt was still there, still tormenting him by confusing him. The elder brother took another step towards him, saying, softly, “Hans...Hans, god, Hans...” he seemed stuck, like he couldn't think of the thing that would hurt Hans the most, like he hadn't planned for Hans to be broken so quickly.

He was pathetic. He was, like Mogens said. 

He hoped it was fast. He hoped that when they broke him physically, either he died or he went so mad he wouldn't even know he was being tortured.

Bendt's hand was suddenly on his head, uncertain, and why was he doing this? Didn't he see Hans was broken without confusing him more?

“Hans, please...” Bendt didn't seem to be able to think of more words. Maybe he was trying to pretend he was that distraught.

Maybe he was.

Maybe he did love--

The lights, the singing, garbled voices, started flashing in Hans's mind, and he groaned, covering his ears, though it did no good. “Go away, please,” he whispered.

“I can't—Hans--” Bendt started, but Hans cut him off.

“Not you,” he said, not explaining. He felt like Bendt knew, like they all knew—like he was crazy and they knew. That was why they hated him.

“Not...me? Hans, there's no one else here,” Bendt's voice was quickly becoming more horrified.

Hans covered his head, knocking Bendt's tentative hand free. “Stop it, you're making it worse, just give it back and let me--”

Bendt's hand tightened around the bottle, Hans could see it, and he said, “No, Hans, what's happening? What happened to you? Please, tell me—I can help!”

Hans looked up at him with bleary eyes, seeing the sincere, agonized look in his eyes seem to morph into a malicious look, trying to get more information to torture him for. “No!” he shouted at him. “No, you're the problem, you're all the problem, I had to get out, I had to escape, I was going to die here--”

Bendt's eye were wide with alarm. “You were never going to die here, Hans! What—how am I the problem? What are you talking about?”

“Stop hurting me, please, just stop,” Hans pleaded, memories of pain flitting through his mind unbidden. It was surreal, like it was there just to remind him to be afraid, to be afraid of Bendt in particular.

“But I never hurt you! Hans, please, talk to me--” 

Hans screamed at that, sick of the lies, sick of the pretense that he just couldn't wrap his head around. “Go away! Leave me alone, go away, go away, go away!”

Bendt backed up, bottle still with him, pale. He looked at Hans one more time, and with a strange, unreadable look on his face, left the room, clicking the lock shut behind him.

Hans curled up into his pillow, feeling helpless and worn out and just waiting, unsure and out of control—when would they break him? When would another brother come in to hurt him?

He sobbed into the pillow—at least if he cried now, he might not cry when the next brother came in, right?

He fell asleep that way, curled tightly around the pillow, and dreamed of times that did not exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am glad to be updating, honestly. It's been a hell of time. :P But yeah, I've been planning for this one for a while, honestly. Hope it's still good.
> 
> Mogens is...somewhat emotionally detached from his family. He did it to survive the emotional pain, but he doesn't recognize it's a bad coping mechanism--he thinks it's a strength instead. He was about eighteen at the time of Hans's birth, but still had to be somewhat separate due to his upbringing as the heir.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hans is dealing with the psychological fallout--and his second eldest brother, Nikolaj.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Dissociative stuff that might be a little much if you get triggered into dissociative episodes easily, kay?

Hans didn't know how long he slept. All he knew was, it was a bleary gray outside. Kind of foggy, in all honesty. It made him think of his head, his mind.

And he felt like he might throw up.

He was not going to be okay--this much, he had known from the beginning. But it was truly cemented now, a concrete certainty. Now that they knew, or believed, he wanted to die, they would never, ever allow it.

His face felt like rubber, stretched over a wooden mask. Like a strange doll. He staggered to his feet, finding his knees weak, and looked into his mirror. 

He _looked_ rubber, and he got a strange sensation of looking at someone else. Someone very different from him, small and fake. His hand pressed against the mirror, and his eyes--maybe not his, green, too green, too much like they were different and didn't understand--looked back at him. 

He thought he saw a flash of malevolence in the eyes, a nonhuman presence, and he quickly retracted his hand as he tried to reassure himself he could not have seen that. There was no way he could have seen it, there was no such thing as--as--

But then there was Elsa. She had magic. Magic existed.

This was fact.

And so Hans tried to build from there. If Elsa could make life, a snow creature, then it stood to reason that a life could be put in him, one that wasn't his. Maybe there were two lives in him. Two souls. And maybe the huge snow monster had had a soul--but that was neither here nor there.

What was important was that maybe something was inside him.

No, no, that was crazy. That was...

Not that crazy. He'd seen a woman bring winter weather on a country in the summer, freeze entire oceans--he'd seen a girl turn to ice, and then come back alive--he'd seen snowmen come to life, how was this any crazier?

He wavered. He couldn't just...what could he even do if there was something put inside him?

He was stretching this too far, he decided, even as he looked at his room and saw it sort of...turn unfamiliar. No, not unfamiliar--just not his. Like he was looking at someone else's room. Like this room was a picture.

He bit his finger, trying to make it come back to normal. The pain seemed to bring it back, seeming to focus the room.

He could feel every breath coming in and out of his mouth, his finger and throat cold with his breaths. He pulled his finger from his mouth, feeling a bit of relief. It was--he wasn't being tricked, he supposed. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but just thinking about it set a roiling nausea in his gut, so he simply curled back up around the pillow.

He was himself. He wasn't somebody else. He'd just have to figure out _why_ he did what he did, and then he would at least feel normal.

Until they tortured him to near death.

He buried his face into the pillow again.

That was about when he heard a deceptively gentle knock at the door. He didn't grant permission to enter, but since when did that matter?

The door opened anyway, and there was the brother he did not want to see--Nikolaj.

Second oldest. Second best. Second strongest.

First in the Queen's heart.

And Hans turned his face into the pillow again.

He didn't remember how to breathe.

"Good morning, Hans. I hope you slept well. I've brought some breakfast."

\--

Nikolaj.

He had always set an unease about Lorens's gut, a solid eight years between them--and two sides of the same coin in personality.

Lorens had felt his hackles rise whenever Nikolaj was around, when it was him and Hans, when they were always together and Hans was his. Hans was like his child--stupid, of course, given that he was eight when Hans was born, and there was no earthly way for him to truly be Hans's father--but Lorens had been fiercely protective of him. He'd kissed Hans's little head more times than he could count, every time the tiny child's toddling had brought him a bump.

Hans didn't need to afraid to explore, he tried to show him. There were so many good things out there, so many to seek and find. Like mud. Like puddles full of tadpoles. Like soft pillows and pretty flowers and just...

Everything that he tried to show Birgitta, his and Merete's daughter. She had a touch of her mother's coloring, but his eyes, and she was always grinning, bouncing around like any three year old should. At this moment, she was up--and far too early.

Nikolaj had been up too. He had dropped by his, Merete, and Birgitta's Royal Apartments, and had been asking questions. 

Initially, Lorens had intended to go back to sleep after Nikolaj left--it was very early, and when you had a small child you were committed to personally raising, against Royal custom, you took as much sleep as you could.

But then the last words had come from Nikolaj's mouth, a concerned look in his pearlish blue eyes: 'I don't suppose Hans could succeed in killing himself, even when he tried.'

It hadn't hit Lorens until Nikolaj had left: 'when.' The tone had suggested 'if' but the word caught up to Lorens's brain and he could not sleep. HIs stomach was in knots, and he almost wanted to chase Nikolaj down and demand to know what he was talking about.

'When.'

He felt like throwing up just thinking about it. And Birgitta seemed to sense he was awake, and was now on his lap, busily talking to him and playing with the buttons on his nightshirt as they sat in the main area so Merete did not wake up.

He looked at the chubby child on his lap, and saw a flash of a redheaded child, not quite so chubby-cheeked, not quite so delighted and bright-eyed, not quite so determined to be loud.

And Hans had attempted to end his own life.

And Lorens couldn't help but feel responsible. It was his nature, he supposed, but he couldn't help but think if he'd--just defied the King--he couldn't have, he knew that, but, there had to have been a way. A way to prevent it. To protect him.

Lorens pulled Birgitta closer, and she nuzzled her face into his neck, chirping, "Mama says that trolls aren't real, Papa, she says that they were made up! But she said that if I wanted to, I could pretend to be one, just like Uncle Bendt talks about! They look like rocks!"

"I know, Birgitta-pigen," Lorens murmured, and he was afraid he'd cry, smoothing down her hair and just holding her close. The thought of her ever being hurt, ever being so far gone that she would hurt herself--it presented itself, and it hurt him.

And Hans was there. At that place.

He had to do something. He kissed his daughter's forehead, and then the top of her head, and said, "Papa's got to go something important, okay, little mouse? We're going to wake up Mama, but then, you're going to go back to sleep with her, so Mama can rest. It'll be like a game--you can be Sleeping Beauty, and I will come back and kiss you so you can wake up."

Thank god, Birgitta was delighted with that game. Such things did not always work, but her favorite story was Sleeping Beauty of late--one that, at the time, he and Merete had bemoaned just a little, because they wanted her to enjoy stories that they felt were a better example for her as a princess and potential leader, but then, he'd heard her instructing her stuffed animals to 'wake me up to save the kingdom, I have to fight the dragon!' and felt a bit relieved.

And so, he got Birgitta in bed with Merete, who woke up a bit groggily.

"Lorens?"

"It's Hans. He's not doing so well, and I have to go see him."

Merete gave him a sad look. He knew she thought it might be a lost cause--but he also knew that she knew he had to. That he couldn't give up.

That it would be turning his back on who he was and what mattered to him.

And so Lorens kissed her goodbye and headed for Hans's quarters.

\--

Hans couldn't keep his eyes shut. He watched as Nikolaj walked towards him, tray in his hands.

"Haven't they fed you? I'll have to talk to the palace staff. You look like you haven't eaten the whole time you've been here." Nikolaj was blond. He was tall. He had blue eyes that looked just a tad cloudy in color. And they were looking at Hans like they could see through him.

He was talking like he was normal.

And this was an absurd thought, Hans realized. Maybe Nikolaj was the normal one and he was the crazy one. 

"Not hungry," Hans managed to breathe out.

Why? Why was it so hard?

Nikolaj settled on the end of Hans's bed, and Hans wanted to curl up tighter. "Little brother, you need to eat. You won't get better if you don't." His eyes seemed to catch the flinch in Hans's posture, and he sighed, "You poor thing. You don't think it's going to get better, do you?"

Don't say anything, Hans told himself. Don't say anything.

Nikolaj sighed, and reached out, making Hans flinch back. His hand landed on Hans's side, a tender, sensitive spot, and he didn't seem to make any indication he heard the sound Hans made at the slight pressure. "Oh, Hans...You poor, poor dear. Of course it can get better. You'll see."

Don't listen. Hans wished he could cover his ears, he was sure this was going nowhere good.

"No, don't worry," Nikolaj insisted, fingers gently rubbing Hans's side, like he didn't know it hurt. Maybe he didn't. Hans wasn't sure, he was never sure with Nikolaj. "Don't worry. I know it will get better."

"It will?" Hans thought maybe, just maybe, Nikolaj knew something he didn't. Maybe he meant it. "How?"

"Hans, you're in a family of fifteen people, not even counting spouses and nieces and nephews," Nikolaj said, fingers still moving in what would be a soothing pattern--on someone else. "You've probably got one of the largest families just about anywhere. Certainly the largest Royal Family, yes?"

"Yes," Hans said hesitantly. He did have a very big family. So big he felt lost in it.

"How many of them love you?" Nikolaj said this sort of softly, like he might mean it, his eyes turned on Hans. There was a look in his eyes, a sort of knowing, understanding sort of look.

And Hans replied, a sort of tentative feeling in his throat, "Maybe...maybe at least one..."

"Oh, Hans," Nikolaj said, and that was about when the empathetic look changed a little, a look that set a new nausea in his stomach, a kind of tentative horror that he was about to be hurt. "Hans, you sweet little child...you know how I know that it will get better?"

Hans didn't dare answer.

"You don't know because you're naive--you've completely misunderstood," Nikolaj continued, that smile on his face like he was still saying something nice, but then it morphed, that all-seeing set of eyes boring through Hans straight to his core. "Not a single person in this family loves you. Out of fourteen people, not one truly cares about you--when was the last time someone hugged you? When was the last time any of us even talked to you, outside of obligation?"

Hans could feel his chest tighten. He was forgetting how to breathe again.

"No one loves you. And that's how I know it's going to get better."

Hans stared at him, not sure whether to hope or not.

Nikolaj patted his hip in a familiar way. "It's going to get better, because there's no other choice--it can't get worse. You can't sink any lower. You can't be anymore of a pathetic waste. So, yes, it can only get better--even if better means your death."

It felt like there had been a little paper structure inside of him, one that was maybe his heart or hope or something--and it was crumpled under Nikolaj's hand, a hand purporting to be kind.

He couldn't breathe. His chest hurt, felt like someone had shoved ice in it. He couldn't look away.

Nikolaj patted him. "I'm sorry. It was kind of inevitable. You thought you were clever, and as always, it backfired on you. You were never much of a brain, just good enough at spinning a word to think yourself smart."

He stood up. He looked like he would move away.

Hans was so lost in the apparent truth that he didn't notice Nikolaj come closer, so lost in the truth that _no one had ever loved him_ , that he didn't notice until Nikolaj's hand landed on the back of his neck, making his skin go frozen, his teeth snap together so tight that he clipped his tongue and tasted blood, body going stiff as a metal rod.

"Hey, chin up. I'm sure you'll come up with some gimmick to make yourself feel better--it's what you've always done, after all. Maybe you can pretend a stuffed bear loves you." Nikolaj's words were like knives.

His hand was still on the back of Hans's neck, like spider legs, like a manacle.

"You'll figure out what to do."

And with that, Nikolaj released his neck, never once smirking down.

He didn't need to, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where did you think Hans learned it, after all? I hope this makes sense. I feel kinda tired. I have been trying to figure Nikolaj out--in essence, he is what Lorens is--an empath. Feelings are his power--he understands them.
> 
> Unlike Lorens, however, this didn't become a need to love everything. It became a tool to take people apart. Empathy does not necessarily mean sympathy, after all.
> 
> Gah, I hope this makes sense. I am an empath, and I *can* take people apart, I just choose not to. Nikolaj, on the other hand, has been honing that skill for years.
> 
> Maybe I will be able to explain better by next chapter. Night!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorens may be catching on to something being horribly off about Hans.
> 
> Hans doesn't know if he can trust Lorens. At all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D I did it! Finally! Enjoy!

Hans felt dead. Or, more accurately, like he was on overload. Like a bucket that had reached its limit and was just spilling water all over the floor--cold water.

It was stupid. He was stupid. Everything was stupid.

Nikolaj gently brushed his hair back from his face. The motion was like ruffling a bird's feathers the wrong way--Hans couldn't help but shudder, even as he wouldn't look at Nikolaj.

"You're not cold, are you? I'm sure I could get another blanket--or perhaps more wood on your fire? I wouldn't want you to freeze, after all," Nikolaj said, voice far too gentle to be anything good.

Hans managed to shake his head. He wasn't certain on whether or not he was cold, but he certainly didn't want Nikolaj getting him anything. He just curled a bit tighter on himself, body feeling like bags of sand.

"Poor Hans," Nikolaj murmured with a sigh. "Always digging yourself in deeper, aren't you, you poor thing?"

Nikolaj stepped closer again, and Hans wanted to hide, wanted to flinch away--not certain why, but knowing that Nikolaj was _bad_ like all of them but somehow not like all of them--but he couldn't. He just shut his eyes.

"Hans!" Lorens. Oh, wonderful--now there were two of them to break his spirit. Or break it down further, anyway.

He opened his eyes, to see his expressive older brother in the doorway. The look on his face couldn't be shock, could it? 

"Ah, Lorens--glad to see you're here," Nikolaj said with a smile. "I'm worried about Hans. He seems very ill--perhaps in the head."

Lorens just gave Nikolaj a scowl--which morphed into a fake pleasant look that anyone could see through. "I see. Thanks so much, Nikolaj. I'll handle it from here."

The levels of 'go stab yourself with a rusty pitchfork' were high in that look--and Hans didn't understand why. And he knew that Nikolaj knew--that he always knew.

But Nikolaj just smiled back. "Of course, brother. Help him, if you can."

And he exited the room, patting Lorens's shoulder gently, as if consoling him.

Lorens quickly crossed the room to Hans, and Hans just about sobbed--he couldn't take anymore of this, why were they tag-teaming him this way? He curled up tighter, wanting Lorens to leave and not hurt him. Not like the rest of them.

But Lorens's hand was gentle against the side of his head, near his cheek. "Hey. Hey, you're okay."

And somehow...that was okay. Hans felt just a touch of tension go out of his body, and he looked blearily at his brother.

Memories surfaced again--falling in a creek when Lorens let go of him, this one extremely faint, being pushed into a pillar--but they weren't nearly as painful as Nikolaj, and Hans was just so tired.

He felt his eyes sting, and he murmured, "It's not okay."

He thought he heard a sympathetic noise from Lorens. The elder brother sat on the bed, making it dip a bit--and his hand was still against Hans's cheek, near his ear. It was warm. "It's...I can't promise it's going to be all better, but I'm...I can't let you be hurt. Not by anybody. Especially you."

The slight twitch from Lorens seemed to indicate he knew he'd said the wrong thing.

And he had. Hans recoiled, feeling a fear in his stomach like a rock. He pressed up against the wall, a more defensive posture--arms spread, legs bent, eyes feeling sharp as scissors--

And Lorens's hands were out in _apology_. "I'm sorry--I didn't mean anything by that, not like..." He swallowed. "Nikolaj mentioned something. I was very worried about you, Hans."

And slight cringe on Lorens's face still said he felt he was mucking it up, saying all the wrong words. 

Yes, he was. If Nikolaj had said something to Lorens, he didn't think it would be good. It was a game. They were tag-teaming him, like he'd thought. Or maybe those were the right words, then.

Hans didn't know what to believe, as more memories seemed to flash through his mind, like he couldn't stop them. Like they were forcefully making themselves known.

Near drowning in a bathtub. Almost suffocated by a pillow.

No breath. Not breathing.

_No air._

"Hans!"

He was brought out of the feeling, the trapped hysteria, by warm hands on either side of his face. His green eyes focused on Lorens's blue, and he couldn't see deception there. He could only see concern--at almost terrified levels.

"I need you to breathe, okay? I need you to do that. In, out, in, out--"

Hans did so without really thinking about it, and he thought he saw something pained in Lorens's eyes. Like he could see into him, but somehow wasn't disgusted.

Feeling was coming back to his fingers. He hadn't known that it had left. His lungs hurt.

Lorens was...he was crying. He couldn't be crying. That made no sense. And as the elder brother wiped his thumbs across his face, Hans realized _he_ was crying too.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Lorens said, "I wanted you to be okay, but you're not, and I'm sorry."

"Why...?" Hans didn't know how to finish the thought. Why would Lorens care if he was okay? It seemed so genuine, but then, his family was excellent at lying--just like he was. The majority of them were much, much more skilled at it than most people.

Lorens sniffled loudly, and said, voice seeming to break a bit, "I should have looked out for you. I should have been your big brother. And I'm sorry--I'm sorry I left you all alone. I'm sorry."

Hans didn't know what to do. It was clashing horribly with his memories, a strange inkling seeming to thread through his mind of ancient memories, of warm hands and encouraging looks his way and all manner of things. It was hazy. It was like looking at a partially destroyed photograph, and it _frightened_ him.

He shut his eyes tight, and turned his face away. Didn't say a word--he had never known how to react with such straightforward, strong feelings. When nobody else was playing the game, when there was no game to play, he didn't know what to do with himself.

Lorens actually wrapped his arms around him, and Hans realized he was still crying, hard, unable to say a word, as Lorens murmured, "I'm--I'm going to look out for you now, okay? I'm going to figure this out."

And it didn't make any sense, Lorens hated him like the rest, they all hated him--and he managed to say, voice choked, "But why? Why? You hurt me."

Lorens pulled back a bit, to look him in the eyes, confused, searching his green eyes for any sign that this was a lie or something. His hands were still gentle on his shoulders.

Hans didn't know what he was looking for. But the anguish may have indicated he found it.

\--

Merete would say he was letting his emotions get the better of him again. But it was like a painful storm in his chest, hot waves sloshing around and lightning striking like a throb in his heart. 

Lorens couldn't turn his back on his brother again. The very look in Hans's eyes seemed to strike a righteous fury into his heart: how dare they do this to him. How dare they make this happen. This was far worse than anything Lorens could have caused.

At least Hans would have known he was loved, if he turned out 'soft.' At least he wouldn't be looking at him like he might try to kill him. Like there was a precedent set for how much pain Lorens would inflict.

Lorens wanted to scream. He wanted to take Hans and run, and he knew that was foolish, there was nowhere to take him, he had Merete and Birgitta to think of, and god knew that his father would never let it happen--

But Hans _needed_ him, like he'd needed him all along.

And he couldn't do it again. He just couldn't. Not like one and half decades ago.

"Hans...please, tell me what happened over there. Who hurt you?"

\--

Hans was bewildered by the question. Who _hurt_ him? _Over there?_

What about who hurt him here? At best, he'd been knocked around a little--oh, and punched. In the face.

A murmur of a feeling, almost painful, rose in his chest. _Anna_ had punched him, and somehow that wasn't okay. He hated her, though, or had never loved her--never. Something. Something the opposite of the pain in his chest like a soft thing being melted by a steady flame. Dripping burning hot over his insides.

The utter confusion must have shown in his face.

Lorens said, slowly and softly, "Do you not remember? Is that why you're having such trouble telling us?"

What--why did he think Hans wouldn't have trouble telling them? _Them_? He wasn't certain he could adequately explain to a stranger, much less _them._

Hans grasped for straws. "I got punched in the face."

The responding crease of the brow in Lorens's face said, 'What? Just...what?' He stared at Hans a moment, as if expecting him to continue.

The thought occurred to Hans to lie, to make up some story of extreme abuse or assault, but there many things wrong with that idea. For one, Lorens could tell, and if he couldn't, the other one would certainly be able to draw it out of him.

For another--no corresponding marks, no one else to back it up, and did he really want to die shamed on top of it all if it didn't pay off? He was shamed enough without women beating him or anything else.

It didn't matter that Anna might even have been physically stronger than him, and Elsa had magical powers--it would never be seen as anything but extreme shame.

Suddenly, he was aware of very pained look in Lorens's eyes, seeing right into his.

"Please don't lie to me, Hans," Lorens said, voice soft, but so hurt. Enough that the cogs and gears stopped clicking and whirring in Hans's mind from trying to figure out how to set the situation to his advantage--or at least to his not being in pain.

The truth was harder. Harder than anything in the world. Hans suspected whoever wrote that the 'truth would set you free' was one of three things: a complete and utter liar, someone who had never truly suffered, or a writer with a sadistic sense of humor. Because the truth here was going to imprison him at best.

Unless you went the sadistic writer idea, and considered 'free' as 'dead,' if it got to that.

"I can't," Hans murmured, the honesty of the statement making his innards seem to freeze, full of ice. "I don't...If I tell what I do know, for sure, you'll all...you'll kill me. Or worse."

Lorens's face had an anguished 'what could be worse than dead?' look on it, but he swallowed hard, and pushed back Hans's hair from his face, like the dirty, red mop was worth touching and not disgusting. The touch tingled, since Hans was definitely the only person who touched his own hair at this point.

"You don't remember?" His voice said he suspected it was a touch different, but this opened the conversation.

Hans's heart seemed to slide its way up his throat, slowly rising fear. And maybe, just maybe, a hope. He just shook his head, saying, "I don't know. I can't remember it...the _right_ way--"

And a flash of Lorens, an all wrong Lorens, the one holding his neck, his hands too rough, his breath which stank of Haakarl in Hans's face as he laughed and Hans _couldn't breathe_ \--

It didn't matter it was disjointed and made no sense.

Hans threw himself away from Lorens, running for the door even as his legs seemed about to buckle under him.

"Hans, wait, I'm sorry!" Lorens's voice spoke of panic, of desperate wanting Hans to be okay and stay--everything opposite of the laugh, which didn't even match Lorens's, echoing in Hans's head.

He raced down the hall, a wild panic sending him anywhere.

He slammed into a body, and the arms wrapped around him tightly. He fought the arms, screaming, bursting into tears and screeching curses at the owner of the arms--the too strong arms, the solid ones that held him just tight enough that he couldn't get free.

He worked himself to the point that he began to see everything in a hazy, not real way, like it was a painting or something--

And then white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I am just glad to update this. It's been a time. This has been in the works for a while.
> 
> And who is the owner of these mystery arms?? You shall see in the next chapter!
> 
> (Also, I got poisoned and shit--go me. :P)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib and Lorens are catching on that something horrible has happened. Something besides the obvious surface actions.
> 
> And Hans doesn't think he can take much more, since he's clearly gone mad.

Ib didn’t always know what to do when his siblings acted like this. To be fair, though, this sort of thing was entirely out of the ordinary, so his not knowing might be excusable. As it was, he held onto Hans until his brother went limp, seemingly passing out.

Yes, passed out, given his pallor, shallow breaths, and general panic.

Lorens caught up about then, face red, chest heaving, and he reached out towards Hans. “Is…is he all right?”

Ib blinked. “I don’t think so. He was screaming a lot.”

People who were all right simply didn’t scream a lot. Or pass out from screaming and crying. There were different kinds of screams, and given that Hans was not a small child, this was not a happy scream at all.

Lorens put his fingers on the side of Hans’s neck, and breathed out a heavy breath. “Will you help me get him back to his—no, to your room?”

Ib wasn’t certain why. His room made little sense, and it sent an uncomfortable prickling up his spine to have people in his space. Lorens had certainly never been in there, much less Hans. He didn’t like people in his room. 

But Hans gave a small moan, and Ib decided that it would be all right. He hefted Hans up into a bridal carry and nodded. He was still apprehensive, but sometimes Lorens was very smart about people. 

They walked slowly to Ib’s room, and Lorens tried to open the door. It was locked, which Ib didn’t think should come as a surprise. He used his key while balancing Hans and unlocked it.

They walked into Ib’s room. His skin crawled as Lorens looked around, eyes a little wide.

“You drew these? And…those are a lot of skeletons,” Lorens said softly, eyeing everything.

“I have a bed in the back,” Ib responded, and took Hans to it. He didn’t want to talk to Lorens about his research or the things he did in his spare time. Lorens was frighteningly unpredictable at times, and Ib didn’t want to be around him very much. He didn’t understand him.

He settled Hans in the bed, pulling the covers up on him. Hans looked very sick. At least, in Ib’s estimation. The twins would be better at knowing. On rare occasions, they gave him pointers on his skeletons and other biological guesswork.

His and their interests probably intersected the most in this household. It made sense to Ib, because they were definitely the weirder ones, but at least Trygve and Troels were predictable.

Not like Lorens, who was suddenly sitting next to the bed and looking at Hans’s pale, wan face. “Oh god. Look at him, what have I done?”

Ib didn’t know what Lorens was going on about, but if he’d hurt Hans, he probably should feel guilty. “What did you do?”

“It’s what I didn’t do,” Lorens murmured, infuriatingly unclear. He was so cryptic, and it drove Ib mad.

Ib decided he would attend to the actual problem: Hans and his ill health. His youngest brother looked like he hadn’t eaten in a long time, and he also looked like he’d been sleeping badly at best. His dark undereyes, as well as general puffiness, attested to that.

Naturally, water was in order, and so Ib got some, using a technique he’d seen the twins use: a wetted cloth. Hans would probably wake up soon anyway, but there was no reason to drown him.

That seemed likely to cause panic. Ib didn’t particularly enjoy not being able to breathe. No one did that he’d seen so far.

Lorens was not very useful, frankly, running his thumb over Hans’s fingers. It didn’t seem likely to Ib that that would do much good, as Hans probably didn’t need circulation restored, and he wasn’t conscious, so it wouldn’t even comfort him.

But, Lorens did as Lorens did.

So Ib did as he himself did.

\--

Hans awoke with a start, swirling neon colors clouding his vision. He was warm, under something, and he fought it before gentle hands held him down.

Gentle was usually deceptive, however, so he couldn’t fight the shiver that went through his body.

There was a piece of cloth, very wet, but not shoved into his mouth. He looked around, fast, pulse seeming to thrum in his head, as he saw two of his brothers standing over him.

Lorens, and Ib.

He didn’t know either of them extremely well, he thought, compared to in books when people knew each other, but he knew enough to know they were okay.

Right?

Ib’s face was expressionless, and he was the one holding the cloth to Hans’s lips, and very suddenly the fear struck that Ib was poisoning him. Memories flashed up, so very few, but mostly of fear. Of harm.

“Hans, it’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you, I promise,” Lorens said, and Hans could see the way he seemed near tears. He was holding his hand.

Lorens’s hand was sweaty, and it felt weird in his. Or his hand felt weird in Lorens’, rather. He certainly wasn’t gripping back, and it felt hard to curl his fingers. He swallowed, mouth too dry even with whatever Ib was doing, and he croaked, “What do you want?”

Ib said rather flatly, “I want you to get better.”

Lorens seemed to huff a small sigh at that, and explained, “You went running. You seemed really scared. I’m worried about you.”

This was a messy tangle of confusion. All Hans could respond with was, “Why?”

It must have sounded almost plaintive.

Ib pressed the cloth more firmly against his mouth, dabbing at his dry lips. His eyes darted to Hans’s lips, then his eyes, not really making eye contact, but looking for something.

Hans bit. He missed any of Ib’s fingers, but the cloth was pulled out of his mouth as Ib frowned.

“No, Hans, you’re okay—you’re safe,” Lorens said, a slight desperation tinging his tone. “Please don’t bite anyone.”

He wanted to trust Lorens. He wanted to. But the swirling voices were coming back, and he was _mad_ , wasn’t he? He was crazy. He’d been driven insane, and maybe that had been their plan all along. He’d been broken, and he didn’t care.

He felt the fight bleed out of him fast, and he simply laid there, limp. He had a sudden, vague hope the sounds were coming from a phonograph, and pleaded, “Turn off the music. Please.”

“There is no music,” Ib stated flatly, ignoring Lorens’s concerned look over at him.

That was it, then. He was mad.

He’d done horrible things and it’d driven him mad. They’d done horrible things to him and it’d driven him mad. They were going to do more horrible things, but it was too late anyway—they’d won. And they didn’t seem to get that.

Lorens’s hand was on his cheek. It was warm and soft. He blinked blearily at his older brother, unsure if he saw kindness or malice. It felt like his eyes were warping from one to the other in front of him.

“What does the music sound like?” Ib was the one to ask.

Hans struggled for words. “Like…like singing. It rhymes. It…it has a lot of voices. And bright colors.”

They intensified, nearly blotting out his brothers and all that was going on around him, and Hans grasped desperately for the real, for being able to hear his brothers or feel the blanket and not be here.

He came out of it to find Lorens holding his head—and Ib pinning his arms. There was alarm on both their faces.

“Hans, please, please, talk to me, tell me you know who we are,” Lorens pleaded.

Hans nodded as best he could. He knew who they were.

“We need the twins.” Ib stated this.

“What could Bendt and Bertil do in this case?” Lorens demanded almost irritably.

“Trygve and Troels,” came the correction, seeming almost annoyed. Ib still had Hans’s arms, and he looked to the door. “They know the most about bodies. If he’s sick, they might know what to do.”

Hans watched quietly, almost afraid of speaking again. It seemed like trying to talk about any of it made it worse.

And he really didn’t want to visit unreality again.

It shouldn’t have been frightening. It was singing, it was colors, it was…it was nonthreatening things, it felt like. But there was such an undercurrent of malice, of intention to harm, and it overlaid what he knew to be reality in a way that left him unable to discern.

When you didn’t know what was real, how could you be sure of _anything?_

Lorens nodded. “Okay. Get the twins. I’ll watch Hans.”

He didn’t get why they cared so much, and he voiced that. “Why do you care if I’m going to be executed soon? Why does it matter at all?”

The stricken look on Lorens’s face, as Ib hurried from the room, was a strange answer. He didn’t give some obviously false response such as ‘because we love you’ or ‘you don’t deserve to suffer.’ He simply laid a hand on the side of Hans’s face, seemingly ignoring the flinch. “You’re my brother. My baby brother. And you don’t know you’re going to be executed.”

“I don’t know anything,” Hans murmured back bitterly.

He wished he did know. He could prepare adequately then. Make peace with his death. Try to survive what followed if he wasn’t to die.

The twins would undoubtedly poke and prod. He didn’t look forward to it.

He didn’t really look forward to anything right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was harder to update this than I thought it would be.
> 
> Ib is challenging in some ways, but Hans and what happens here was more so. 
> 
> Thank you so much for comments y'all've made and if you're continuing to read. I know this is probably a pretty overdramatic story, but it means a lot that y'all like it.
> 
> :) I hope to go about maybe four or five more chapters before resolution.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins encounter Hans's condition, and rightfully realize that it's more than it appeared.

Trygve got along just fine with Ib, so even though he and Troels had been busying themselves with some of their projects, it wasn’t an unpleasant surprise when Ib showed up. The door squeaked open, very little grind on the hinges.

As Trygve turned to look, so did Troels. His twin followed his signals without a second thought. 

“What’s wrong?” was what Trygve found himself asking, seeing the tight way that Ib’s face was pulled. He was also clenching his teeth, and his fingers kept curling in. All of these were sure signs that Ib was upset, and if it had been someone being senseless again, bothering him in the middle of his research--

“It’s Hans.”

Trygve flashed the sign for Hans at Troels, though his alarm spelled volumes to his twin. A quick glance assured Trygve that Troels understood the gravity, as his twin put down the twine they’d been using to construct a model for a false leg. 

“What’s happened?” Trygve asked, feeling the question emanate from Troels. 

“He’s not all right. He was screaming very loudly until he passed out, and now he believes he can hear music that isn’t there. Come with me,” Ib said, not looking either of them in the face. It was a habit that sometimes bothered Troels, Trygve knew, but it was okay.

Trygve explained quickly to Troels what Ib had told him as they walked, the urgency not lost on Troels. Troels proposed that Hans might have had a mental breakdown, much like the soldiers they’d encountered once or twice who’d violently lost a limb or had other traumatic injuries. A soldier who’d once very nearly drowned had a violent reaction to unexpected water. Perhaps it was the same with Hans?

Trygve felt that it might not be exactly the same, and Troels agreed that it would be ideal to see Hans before making conclusions.

Ib pushed open the door to his room, and that also meant it must be a pretty serious situation; Ib wasn’t fond of letting people in his room.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Lorens said, voice trembling. He seemed to be almost pinning Hans to the bed, keeping the blanket down and sort of cradling his head with one hand. 

Hans seemed to have turned his head away from Lorens, his eyes shut, head bowed. 

Troels pointed out that he seemed very full of shame, but he also looked terrible. And he did, Trygve had to agree.

Hans was sweaty, pale, had very dark bags under his eyes. He looked like he was in pain as well, a sort of hunch to his body. Trygve would place money on someone having harmed him, and he had a good guess as to who.

And it was then he noted that Lorens was getting agitated watching him and Troels sign back and forth, and he repressed a sigh.

This was why he and Troels liked Ib as much as they did; he never stared or acted disturbed about them.

“How’s his temperature?” Trygve asked, breaking the seemingly tense silence.

“He’s sort of warm,” Lorens said, seeming relieved to communicate with Trygve. He launched into what he’d noticed.

“He said he heard music, and there was a moment where it seemed like—like he wasn’t even _here._ Like his mind was just gone, and he was seeing something else. He tried to smack Ib and now he’s been mumbling some under his breath but refusing to speak.”

“So he can speak,” Trygve said, and he and Troels came up closer to the bed. He leaned in to look at Hans, cautious, and put a finger to his neck to take his pulse.

It was running a bit fast, but if Hans was anxious or even hysterical, it would make sense. Hans seemed to be breathing normally enough, and he wasn’t cold to the touch; if anything, he was a bit warm.

“Hans,” Trygve said, “Answer me if you know who I am.”

“You’re Trygve,” came the words, soft but at the same time irritated, annoyed with being treated like he was stupid. So he was mentally present, for the most part. Hans hated being treated like he was stupid.

Troels felt that perhaps it was a depressive episode, like those cases of folks who wouldn’t leave their beds due to sadness. It was an empty feeling, as they understood it, a lack of will to live anymore. They sincerely hoped this wasn’t what was happening with Hans.

Trygve could easily remember when Troels came near to such things. They had been lucky.

There was the slightest bit of a sad smile on Troels’ face, because it was almost tragically funny. They knew there was nothing good down the path of despair, but there was no way to impart this. There was no way to pass on what they’d learned in that sense. 

So Trygve asked, “Do you hear music?”

Hans’ eyes seemed glazed, a reaction that startled them. He seemed to whisper out an affirmative answer, and then quickly shut his eyes.

Something was wrong. His eyes were darting about under his eyelids, his pulse was still too fast, he smelled of sweat. He was so warm to the touch.

There was nothing they could _do_ , it felt like, as the episode seemed to pass, and Hans’ tired eyes opened again. “Leave me alone,” he croaked at them. “Go away.”

That wasn’t about to happen. 

–

They had summoned the twins to torment him. Hans was not a fan, and it wasn’t helping with the music and the lights and the colors. It kept invading his mind the more that they talked to him, the more that his brothers kept _bothering_ him and antagonizing him.

It was almost like they were attacking him. It was like it was on purpose.

Maybe if he punched them, they’d go away and he’d at least stop. The music would stop.

Maybe he should run. The feeling was like before, like he ought to get up and get away in any way he could. But he felt paralyzed, body stiff under the blanket and Lorens’ hands. Lorens’ had his wristbones across his chest, just barely not pushing hard enough to have uncomfortable bone to bone contact.

All Hans could think was, this was the worst. The absolute worst feeling he’d had in his life, and he’d had some bad ones.

He’d had the three tormenting him for years, he’d had the agony of worrying about where he’d end up in life, he’d had the emotional torment of Werner, he’d even had thinking he could fall in love and--

The music burned in his ears, and he gasped—he’d never thought he could fall in love with _Anna_ , where had that come from? He’d never thought it, and this phrase repeated itself over and over again, the colors blurring as he squeezed his eyes shut.

_He’d never thought it._

–

To say Lorens was frightened was an understatement of immense proportions. His whole heart was rattling in his ribcage as Hans repeated to himself over and over again that he hadn’t thought it, whatever it was, and nothing could be done to bring him out of it.

The twins had backed up, alarm on their faces, and Ib was standing back with a stony expression. 

“Hans! Snap out of it!” Lorens tried, again to no avail. It was like Hans wasn’t even here, like he was—was _possessed_ or something equally terrifying.

It was about then that Ib came in, a cloth pressed to Hans’ face, and Hans slowly drifted off. He barely seemed to have known that Ib had done that, hadn’t struggled against it.

And that seemed to put the fear that Lorens was feeling into even Ib’s eyes.

Trygve and Troels were near the wall now, and were communicating in that strange way that Lorens couldn’t understand. Trygve looked to Lorens now, and said, in a quiet voice, “We need to talk to Bendt. This is beyond our understanding.”

And it occurred to Lorens almost belatedly that what Trygve meant by that was that he suspected something beyond natural. That Bendt’s research into the mythological, the obscure and unsupported tales, might actually be of use for anything beyond bedtime stories.

In any other case, Lorens would have called it ridiculous. In this case? He was open to anything.

Bendt was called.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this still makes sense; let me know if it doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the story, it has been a long time since I updated!
> 
> It was a bit of a challenge to write the connection between Trygve and Troels, because while my twin and I did have our own language of sorts, neither of us are deaf. I didn't want to be disrespectful, y'know? Also, yes, some of the other characters are kinda ableist.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! I have such plans. :)


End file.
